


Hands Held with Flame

by silver_fish



Series: Of Storm and Ash [12]
Category: A Saga of Light and Dark - T. J. Chamberlain, Original Work
Genre: BUT ITS NOT really canon...unless u want it to be LOL, Gen, Missing Scene, Of Storm and Ash - Freeform, Poseidon POV, Scars, character study ish, introspective, set between chapters 5 and 6
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-13
Updated: 2020-08-13
Packaged: 2021-03-05 23:22:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,495
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25723528
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silver_fish/pseuds/silver_fish
Summary: “All right,” Ada said. “Deep breaths now, okay? It might hurt a bit, and you’ll probably have some scars, but they’ll look cool, I promise.” She winked. Poseidon responded with a very tired-looking smile.
Relationships: Adrienne Cherri Smith & Poseidon Smith, Nerissa Smith & Poseidon Smith
Series: Of Storm and Ash [12]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1634857
Comments: 5
Kudos: 3





	Hands Held with Flame

**Author's Note:**

> [twitter](https://twitter.com/laphicets) / [tumblr](https://kohakhearts.tumblr.com)
> 
> in 135 000 words, it’s hard to explore everything you want to. nerissa’s got a lot on her mind, but she does notice the scars on poseidon’s hands a few times and i think...whatever they mean to her, they also mean something to him. these kiddos collect a lot of scars throughout the series but the first, over his hands, feels pretty symbolic. anyway...this is the first fic ive written set in canon ‘verse that takes place in book one—and early on at that! so not so heavy on the spoilers this time. enjoy!

They’re not that noticeable.

He does remember the sensation of it. Burning his skin, pain tearing through his throat… He remembers, too, the look on his sister’s face—it was not simply terror, not even anger...something far deeper, an expression he hopes to never see again but knows, deep inside of himself, that he will.

Poseidon has never thought of Nerissa as a _scary_ person. But in that moment, running towards Ellia with the intent to kill, she was.

Maybe she thinks so too, though, so he would never say so to her. She thinks he does not notice when she wakes in the middle of the night, when she leaves the room with hurtful, laboured breaths and then comes back only a little bit calmer. She thinks he does not notice, because she doesn’t _want_ him to notice, but he does.

So he doesn’t say anything. Not to her, at least.

“I’ll talk to her,” Adrienne promises. “It just might take some time. Don’t worry, buddy. We’ll be all right.”

He _wants_ to argue with her—wants to say that Nerissa’s mood is driving him crazy, that _you didn’t see her face when she realized she killed those people_ —but how can he? He doesn’t know how to help her, either. And every night before he goes to sleep, he looks at his hands and he _remembers_. How is he supposed to tell her how to feel, when he doesn’t even know how he does?

But her feelings are so _loud_. They whisper around the edges of his mind, incessant; they threaten to consume him, leave him an extension of her pain rather than a product of his own. It has always been like this, in a sense, but now there is so much pain in her chest, a weight she cannot shake… It is inescapable, especially since they are almost always together, even now.

After that first day, they are all a little lost. It’s a new place—a new _life_ , really, where they are no longer a secret hidden away. It is marked by Nerissa’s bad dreams, by Adrienne’s barely concealed rage, and by these—

These _scars_.

True to Ada’s word, he has to concur that they do look kind of cool. They create little white lines, swirling patterns, along the heels of his hands, wrapping up across his palms. They don’t hurt anymore, don’t even really look like they ever _were_ painful, but he can remember Nerissa’s shaking hands, the splashing water, wounds she could not—cannot—rid him of.

And he was the one, wasn’t he? _He_ was the one who said they should go to the library. She was just trying to keep them safe—she always is—and he was the one, irritated with their mother, angry about the circumstances of their father’s death, who decided the risk did not matter.

He thinks that, maybe, he deserves them. A reminder, in a sense, of what his misdirection caused.

Even still, he thinks of what Adonis said to them. They can _change_ things, if they just try… As much as they are a reminder of his poor decision at the university, they are a reminder of the structure Adonis insists they can tear down.

And shouldn’t they _want_ to tear it down?

His mother and sister have been so miserable. Nerissa, with her regrets and her trembling hands and her magic, always her magic, something she does not know, as Poseidon does, isn’t _really_ foul. Adrienne’s ghosts, her past, the one she always told them doesn’t matter— _didn’t_ matter, because now they are here.

He tries to finish his drawing, but his hands are different, now, than they were. Nothing has changed, and yet—the pencil does not sit right anymore, feels too warm between his fingers, reminiscent of a fire eternally snuffed out…

If Nerissa notices, she doesn’t say anything, but he isn’t sure that she does. She is, after all, preoccupied with her own thoughts—thoughts that are far too massive for him to sit in the same room as anymore.

Not that Adrienne is much better. On their fourth day at the base, she holds him back after dinner. “I just think we should have a chat,” she says kindly. “Go ahead, Issa.”

Nerissa eyes them uncertainly. “Is everything okay?”

He wonders if she is thinking about what Adonis said the other day too.

“Everything’s fine,” Adrienne insists. “Get some rest. Goodness knows we all need it.”

Poseidon shoots her a small smile, which is apparently assuring enough to have her turning around to head to their own room. He follows Adrienne wordlessly across the hall, preparing, but when the door closes, all she says is, “Let me see your hands.”

He winces, bringing them close to his chest. “It’s—they’re fine. Ada healed them.”

“I know. I just want to see.”

The shine in her eyes is almost worse than Nerissa’s had been, back in the library.

He holds them out.

Gently, she takes a hold of them, leaning close to inspect the scars. Her fingers are soft against his skin, but, for perhaps the first time in his life, they offer no comfort.

“I’m sorry I got there so late,” she murmurs. “Your sister—”

“She’ll be okay,” he says quickly.

“I know.” Her gaze softens. “I was going to say that she’s worried about you. I think what happened really scared her...and it probably scared you too, right?”

He looks away from her, but she has known him so intimately for so long…

“I don’t think this will be the last time something like this happens,” she admits. “Honestly...I doubt it’ll be the last time Nerissa kills someone for you. And I know...that’s not easy to swallow, at all. For either of you.”

It wasn’t the first time, either.

“This—Bond,” he says awkwardly. “I mean, I love Issa, but—”

“It’s not _just_ about love. There’s...like magic too. That probably helps. It’s easier to bond with mages that have magic like yours. Me and Dad...I don’t know if that even would’ve been possible, no matter how much we loved each other otherwise.”

“Then why doesn’t everyone have them?”

“Honestly? I don’t really know. Issa probably does, if you ask her, but...the point is, you shouldn’t see the Bond as something bad just because in the cases it _has_ protected you, people have wound up dead. There will never be an easy way to say that—I’m glad those people died, if it would’ve been you and your sister instead.”

He said the same thing to Nerissa, just days ago.

“I don’t like how easy it is to hurt other people with magic,” he confesses. “I think—I mean, I know not everyone can be a healer, but…”

“That doesn’t mean they have to hurt people,” Adrienne finishes. “I think so too. But...you know it’s not your sister’s fault, right? And it’s not yours, either.”

“I...I know that.”

She smiles. “Good. Anyway, I just wanted to make sure… You know, if you need anything, I’m always right across the hall. Nothing here matters more to me than you two. Whatever will make this easier for you…”

But something has changed, irrevocably.

He drops his hands. “Can I go now?”

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I mean—I guess so.” What is wrong, he can’t really put into words. He thinks she sorts of gets it, anyway.

“Okay.” She reaches forward, ruffles his hair. “Get some sleep, kiddo. I’ll see you in the morning. I love you.”

He swats her hand away, but can’t keep his lips from twitching. “Yeah, okay. Love you too.”

She doesn’t hold him back, even when his hand fumbles around the doorknob. But he does not breathe any easier once he’s out of her room, doesn’t know if even _breathing_ will ever be as simple as it was five days ago.

He looks down at his hands, at those swirling white lines… How many times he has held flames within these hands, and yet…

It is easy to do, to simply wave his hand and make them spark atop his fingers. But they feel feeble, empty, somehow, like his hands are no longer meant to carry fire, not when it has hurt them so horribly…

He sighs, dropping them—and his magic—down again. He has always _liked_ his magic for its similarity to his mother’s, for its _liveliness_...of all the ways he has to express himself, magic has always felt the largest. It is for most mages, but for him and Nerissa, it’s so much _more_ , little pieces of both their parents, the only thing they still carry with them of their father.

But from all Adrienne says about Ely, he was a talented healer. And so...even if Poseidon cannot heal right, he has always had this—his fire, the magic his mother taught to him with shining eyes, something they share that Nerissa never can.

He clenches his fists at his sides. The skin around his knuckles feels tighter than it used to. He doesn’t know whether or not that’s just his imagination.

When he opens the door to their room, he finds Nerissa sitting on her bed, cross-legged. Her shoes are on the floor in front of her, thrown down with apparent haste.

“Did you get the chat about _talking about things_ too?” she asks wryly, but there is really not mirth in her eyes at all. They are a troubled grey, reminiscent of the Heavens.

“No.” He pauses. “What, did you?”

She purses her lips, looks away from him. “Yeah. Few nights ago. How are your hands?”

“They’re fine.” For emphasis, he raises them and wiggles his fingers at her. “Don’t avoid the question.”

“I’m not!” She straightens out her legs, then lets them fall, her toes brushing against the cold steel floor. “There’s not a whole lot to talk about, is there? I mean, other than Adonis’s whole thing, but—”

“You don’t have a scar,” he interrupts, and is almost as surprised as she is by the words.

“Well, no, I don’t think so. I don’t think the burn was that bad, though. Not like yours.”

“But…” He struggles for the words. They are there somewhere, hidden beneath his tongue, but they are so scrambled, impossible to piece together…

“They didn’t hurt me that badly,” she goes on. “I mean, the choking thing wasn’t very cool, but it didn’t last long. Don’t worry about me, all right? I’m fine. Are they bugging you? Maybe Ada has something—”

“It’s not that.” He sits, averting his gaze. “I just don’t understand how they could call you disgusting when they were the ones using their magic to hurt us.”

“Oh.” She’s quiet for a moment, thinking. It creates a tension at his temples, but, this time, he doesn’t call her out for it.

Instead, he says, “You’re not, you know. Disgusting or…or anything like that.”

“I know.” She doesn’t, though. “You’re not either.”

She does believe this, in a way she can never believe about herself. But Poseidon has never felt _filthy_ for his magic. Broken, though... _defective_...maybe. Right now, the only way he can imagine _fire_ is in Ellia’s hands, pressed against his, holding him tightly…

 _Make one more move, and I’ll kill him_.

What was going through his head at that moment? Was he more afraid for himself, or for Nerissa? Even now, he doesn’t know, can’t even bring himself back there to reimagine it. There is the pain against his palms, burning, vicious fire. He had always thought fire to be _beautiful_. An uncontrollable element, Adrienne told him many years ago. Lose your hold on it, and it will hurt everyone in its path.

But when she was the only one he knew who wielded it, it had never seemed anything more than graceful and kind—like she is.

Maybe Ellia was graceful and kind at times too. Maybe her mother had taught her to use magic when she was very young, and maybe she had thought it was beautiful, just like Poseidon did.

It does not matter if she did, because she never will again.

He doesn’t think Nerissa did the wrong thing. He can’t bring himself to look at her any other way than he always has. She is, after all, his sister; nothing she does could ever make him love her any less, think any lower of her.

“Yeah,” he finally says, offering her a quick smile. “Thanks. Are you okay?”

She rolls her eyes. “ _Yes_. Seriously, stop worrying about me so much. You went through it all too.”

It’s different, though. She _must_ know that, but…

“Besides,” she adds, “we probably both just need some time to think about it, right? And Mom too. It’ll be all right. We’ll always be here for you.”

“Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, I know.”

She hesitates a moment. Something heavy hangs between them, coloured the red and orange of those horrible flames, but—

“I love you,” she says. “Turn the light off whenever you go to bed, all right?”

His throat aches. “Oh...okay. Yeah, I will. Good night.”

She is already on her feet, digging through her pitiful collection of clothes for something to wear to sleep. Briefly, she glances back at him, not quite smiling, and then she turns back again. “Good night.”

And then she leaves, sleepwear and toothbrush and all clutched to her chest.

Perhaps she expects him to draw. Perhaps she expects him to follow her lead and get ready for bed. Perhaps she doesn’t expect anything, because their life has been altered so drastically she can hardly even remember how they once lived, at home, before all this happened.

He thinks he can sort of get that.

In the end, he takes the time she is gone to change into his own pyjamas. Such trivialities as brushing his teeth don’t seem important anymore. The grey Heavens sit above them, heavier than the scars on his hands.

When Nerissa does return, he hears the door click shut and then a sigh, despairing, like she feels _bad_ that he has simply crawled into bed, never mind the rest of it. He scowls, but she has already shut off the light and does not see it.

In their room here, the only light is what seeps in beneath the door from the hallway. It is not enough to see, not really, but they aren’t that noticeable anyway.

And yet, he cannot stop noticing them.

He stays awake for a long time, hands stinging— _burning_ , like they always do, even though she is not touching him anymore, will never be able to do so again…

Finally, after he hears Nerissa rise, leave the room, and come back, sleep finds him, tinged with orange until it fades to grey—that horribly sad grey, so very heavy, an imbalance too far gone to cure.

**Author's Note:**

> comments and kudos are always appreciated! xx
> 
> if you're interested in learning more about or reading my novel series, i post all info on twitter [@laphicets](https://twitter.com/laphicets) and tumblr [@kohakhearts](https://kohakhearts.tumblr.com)! feel free to find me for general writing updates too; i also sometimes take fic requests on both platforms!


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